“Nice!” Brenn was impressed. Sigi was stronger than he'd expected, and more skilled than he. After sparring with Tyr, it allowed him to understand how ignorant he'd been to the greater art of swordplay. Though he used a hammer, and she some strange halberd-esque contraption – it was as good a word as any. She served as a much more appropriate training partner, and a significantly better teacher in any event. “Do you know where Tyr is? We were supposed to meet for training a few hours ago, but I can't find him anywhere.”

“No idea.” Sigi shrugged. “He does this all the time.”

“Doesn't that upset you?” Brenn laughed. Tyr was a mischievous one, always up to one thing or another and mostly alone. “Aren't you his girlfriend? I could never quite figure that out.”

“Girlfriend...?” Sigi was bright red. Not in embarrassment, but rather in outrage. Fortunately, she would recall that few knew who Tyr even was – and she could not claim to be his wife. Stalvarg was her last name and a well known one at that, it was strange that these southerners were unable to connect the very obvious dots. Perhaps they had but just didn't care. They were liberal here in this place, with students fornicating as early as sixteen, not a care in the world. She found it too progressive. Sigi wasn't about to don a frock and start preaching, but it wasn't something she could ever see herself doing.

In Trafalgar, life had been hard at first, resulting in a spartan merit-forward society, with the family unit being more important than anything else. Not like here. Even Oresund seemed a den of degenerates at times, but at least they weren't hypocrites about it. So many conveniences and amenities made people soft and flippant with both their bodies and emotions.

“I am not his girlfriend.” She shook her head. “All you people talk about is this or that relationship. As if talking about sex and all manner of personal things equates to a personality. My personal life is of no concern of yours.”

“Apologies.” Brenn bowed. He was a knight, or at least a knight in training. To offend a woman was not how he should be behaving, red in the ears at her rebuke. Naturally, he took that as a 'yes', and that was as plain as day. Sigi was not overly concerned, it was what it was. There were certainly worse options on the table than Tyr, especially these days.

If Trafalgar had possessed more boys and men of his caliber... Perhaps her family would still be alive. Sigi wanted to get it over with and bear children, raising her position in House Faeron until she possessed the clout or resources necessary to return home and get some closure. But Tyr was forever adamant, either no interest in her – or too cowardly to do the thing.

I suppose we did get off to the wrong foot... She mused with a wry chuckle, confusing Brenn. She had tried to beat him into submission after he'd refused. No matter how many times, it had become a game, but she was no longer interested on forcing a coupling. Her son and future primus should have a mother and father who got along well enough. When he was ready, Tyr was changing these days, not all in ways that she would prefer, but it was only a matter of time before he came around. While she would not besmirch her sisters, they were not her equal in terms of a match for the man.

Sigi quite liked Brenn as well. He was strong and well built, with a great endurance and an almost funny way of announcing his ideals aloud. Talking about justice, chivalry, honor, all of that ridiculous cliché knightly banter. They had become friends, while Alex had found her own in recent weeks. The 'mixer' as they had called it – had been a success – and Brenn was the only man who didn't stare at her body or try to look down her shirt. It was convenient that he made a fine sparring partner as well. Sigi might want to beat Tyr to death sometimes, but she valued her oaths highly and knew what was in it for her if she was the first to bear a grandson for Jartor.

Wheeling up to them as he was wont to do, Micah intercepted them on their way to the cafeteria. They exchanged greetings and continued walking, with Brenn pushing the boy's chair along despite multiple refusals to accept the hand. Sigi had felt sorry for him at first, but a man who lived the way he did, with no self pity was worthy of respect. Micah was a bright soul, if entirely too vile and wretched and lecherous... All of the time...

“Sheesh...” Micah had his head craned back, staring at the skirted posterior of a seventh year student who had passed them. That was, until Sigi corrected the situation by punching his arm. “Sorry... By the way, this new chair is way better than my old one.” He beamed up at her. “Did I thank you?”

“No, you kept staring at my chest. Don't thank me – thank Brennjamin.”

“It's Brennwulf. Or Brenn... Seriously? Brennjamin? Is that even a name?”

“All of you southerners have such ridiculous names, why should I bother remembering them?”

His old 'wheelchair' as they called it, had been a flimsy thing of wood. Micah was from a humble family, unable to afford much more than that, and it's not like they sold them at general stores. Each chair was incredibly expensive, a custom job. At Brenn's request – Sigi had utilized what skill she'd gained alongside the advice of professors and TA's to create a new chair for the man. One that rolled smoothly on its rubber surfaced wheels, with a series of shock absorbent springs set beneath the seat. It had gotten her an A in the class, so she couldn't complain too much about it.

Engineering wasn't a highly regarded vocation, but it was fun. She loved it. There were so many machines that could solve the problems experienced by those without magic, but few seemed to care for the industry beyond flashy things. It wasn't out of some selfless conviction to save and shelter, 'the fog', that force that surrounded the known world and had swallowed Trafalgar was. Because it had anti-magic properties that disrupted spells. If she could replace traditionally magic artifacts with technology, returning would be far easier.

Next, they saw Tythas. Typically, from the aspect of her 'day to day', Sigi would always find Micah to be the source of all that was strange. Either harassing a woman or trying in vain to meet his 'quota' by the end of the year. Quota... An odd word considering his virginity.

Tythas, however, seemed intent to be the strange one today...

“Hey guys.” He waved, speaking quietly as he stood before a vast collection of cleaned bones still steaming from being boiled. Killian, the head chef of the kitchen, was eager to please any friend of Tyr – immediately agreeing to his request. After all, they'd throw them out anyways. No use for bones boiled free of their marrow to make stocks and soup bases.

“What are you doing?” Micah asked, peering down into the crate. There must've been hundreds of chickens worth of remains in there. All white and perfectly cleaned.

Brenn sighed. Tythas was his friend, but if there was one thing he didn't like about the man... “Necromancy...”

“Only chickens.” Tythas smiled. “Oh, and rats.”

Micah's face suddenly became green, casting an unnerved glance at the chef. Sigi didn't care, she'd eaten worse during her exodus. Brenn was similarly unconcerned. He'd been a starving orphan once upon a time and rat meat wasn't bad. People did what they had to do, and that was the way of it. “...Rats?”

“Don't say things that might lead to a misunderstanding!” Killian cried, slapping Tythas abruptly about the back of the head.

“Yes chef... Sorry chef...”

–

Given weeks of experience with it, Tythas' mindset hadn't changed much. He still found it a shame that his real talent was in darkness magic. More accurately, the sub-school of necromancy. Currently, he was at the top of his class in that subject and was doing very well in the school of anima. Keeping it realistic, he did his best not to over-deliver in his exhibitions or examinations.

For a student of his year to command three constructs at once was a peerless talent – but Tythas had already reached eleven. Only two months and a few days into the year, in his first quarter, having no prior experience at all. Revealing that level of talent could be suicidal. At the very least, a massive headache, enough to justify them throwing him into college hands if they wanted to.

Eleven individual constructs that didn't require an anchor or binding focus. Advanced necromancy, they'd call it, and it came easy to him. Worse was the change on his body. Darkness magic was frowned upon not because it was evil, that thought process was in the past. It was frowned on as a greater school of study because it had particularly unfortunate effects on the user. People might age faster, or become ill through their proximity to entropic energies. There was a similar phenomena in the light department, especially among healers. But compared to having your hair fall out in patches and your skin wrinkle prematurely, a little arthritis easily solved by magic was not a major concern.

The study of darkness magic wasn't seen as very useful, either. Those who wanted for similar utilities would study anima or alchemy to create golems. Depending on their skills in enchanting, those constructs could become far superior to a skeletal animal. And they'd avoid the curse it brought on ones body.

A curse for others. Purely cosmetic, they said, it wasn't a shortening of the lifespan that forbidden magic might bring. It was obvious who was a darkness mage user and who wasn't, typically based on the pallor of their skin. They called it 'mana sickness' and it could come from anything, but the symptoms brought out by the dark were harder to treat. Professor Urden said that it was the weakening of the immune system, throwing the body out of balance that made it worse. People could get sick with other things and it made healing them more difficult. After all, elemental darkness was entropy or destruction incarnate, removal, and this would throw the biotic balance of one's digestive tract off.

Typically, extended exposure to dark magic would result in flu-like symptoms starting in the gut and bowels. It wasn't pretty, and they always needed to take precautions.

For Tythas though... It was a blessing. His skin smoothed, and he no longer resembled an older man. Unable to explain it, the others had done so for him. With his salary from Tyr, or at least what they believed to be his salary, of which he received none... They called it a good diet, light magic, and beauty creams, but he knew better.

His bloodline. Whatever it was, that which gave him the natural talent for darkness magic, was rejuvenating his appearance at a noticeable rate. His attunement to the element was having the exact opposite effect.

It was a question he'd find hard to hold onto, lost in the intoxicating feeling of being found handsome. Many girls became prone to tossing him glances in the hallway, giggling when he looked in their direction. No longer was he an old man or an 'uncle', but easily as handsome as Tyr or Iscari. Micah hated him for it, mumbling about 'society' and commenting on genetics.

As good a thing as any, he had no reason to complain. He'd found a real talent, and was benefiting from his progress like all the others, for the first time. Remember how he'd be bullied and mocked back in Amateus for his prematurely aged appearance, now...

Well, it has its perks. He smiled, passing by yet another group of girls blushing and waving at him. Definitely has its perks.

–

A knot was developing just behind Lernin's brow, like a nail in his brain. “Abaddon...” It was hard to reprimand a 'professor' that had been around since long before the Red Dragon had even existed. These inhuman races and their incredible lifespans led to unique problems. And then there was Abaddon himself, authority far beyond Lernin's own, not a subordinate. “The first two times you did this, I said 'fine'. I gave you your agency as his advisor, but I really shouldn't be asked to focus so much of my time signing off on last minute departures by students. He's human, which means we try the human way first. We had an understanding...”

An understanding that no more extra-academy activities would take place for the time being. Students would remain here, where they were safe. Lernin loved this education institution, liked his position as headmaster, and cared for the students. If he didn't, he'd never would have dealt with the eccentric professors and their irritating personalities.

“An understanding that we'd avoid putting them in danger.” Abaddon shrugged. He, like Kael, was rather lazy. Unlike the latter, it was understandable considering his long life. He was lounged about the sofa Lernin kept in his office for guests. Finding it hard to stay awake buried in the feathered cushion as he was. Humans weren't good for much, but they had a unique talent for all things luxury. “Chances are Hastur hasn't made his way into republic lands. Let along the Anu.”

“The Anu!” Lernin exclaimed, hands raised at the terrible thing Abaddon had just admitted to doing. “You sent him to the Anu!?”

“With Valkan.” Abaddon didn't understand why the headmaster was so shocked. “He'll be fine, they love the primus' as if they were one of their own. The old agreements... You wouldn't understand.”

Lernin pursed his lips, calming himself through a force of effort. “I am well aware of who he is. But he's a C rank student!”

“C rank...” Abaddon snorted. Humans had a seemingly endless amount of 'lists'. Who can cast the biggest ball of mana, who can piss the farthest. Little did they know that these ideas of theirs were not even remotely relevant in the grand scheme. “You humans and your classifications of ones power. So ignorant.”

“Is that not his measurement of mana? How else should we rate him?”

“You'll see. Soon. Should've already, but I'm not about to do your job for you. Now if you don't mind, I have a nap to take.”

“How long this time?” Lernin asked, sighing in resignation. He had been a student here while Abaddon was still a professor, and his 'naps' were the reason why Valkan was the 'official' head of the runesmithing workshop. Despite the fact that he only knew of, and could not use human runes. The others didn't stick around the way Abaddon did, and for all his lackadaisical behavior, Lernin knew how lucky they were to have him. To be able to speak to him face to face, an honor not given to all but one or two of the other academies, with their respective protectors.

“Two... Maybe three cycles. I'll wait until they are ready to return before I go into seclusion.” Abaddon departed without another word. The exhaustion was weighing heavily on his mind and he'd already resisted its grasp long enough. He wondered how long it'd be before he fell into the decades long slumber of his eldest kin.